


Bare Necessities

by RazzleDazzle



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 3B never happened, Barebacking, Bottom Stiles, Comeplay, Established Relationship, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Misunderstandings, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Stiles is of age and probably in college somewhere, minor descriptions of anxiety, potentially under-negotiated kink, s4 never happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:25:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2823320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RazzleDazzle/pseuds/RazzleDazzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strong><em>Prompt:</em></strong> I cut holes in all of our condoms so you'd finally fuck me bareback.</p><p>“The condoms weren’t your fault because they were, uh. Mine.”</p><p>Derek blinks. “What? No. I was the one who bought them.”</p><p>“Yeah!” Stiles agrees. “And I was the one who, um. Cut holes into all of them.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bare Necessities

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prompt from tumblr, so it's also [posted there](http://softlycanthropy.tumblr.com/post/105853015326/bare-necessities-derek-stiles). Feel free to let me know if there are any extra tags I should add! Also, sorry for any mistakes. I did all the editing myself. :)

Derek stares down at the package in his hand. Then he stares at the box propped up on the sink, where he’d gotten the package. Then, he stares down at the package not in his hand, that will be in his hand soon enough, because it will most assuredly not be getting any ass tonight. It wilts a bit at the thought.

“Shit on a stick Derek, what’s taking so long?” grouses a very naked Stiles, looking cross and tightly gripping both sides of the bathroom door frame.

“We don’t have any condoms,” he replies. He tosses the ruined foil packet, along with the rest of the box, into the trash. “There are holes in all of them. I must have grabbed a defective box.”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, a quick breath of a word. “Well how about that.”

When Derek looks at him, his expressive features are still. Not quite calm, but… blank. It doesn’t match his voice, the stilted composure of it. He can’t read any disappointment off of him, but his gut tells him that Stiles is holding something back.

It fills Derek with that sinking feeling; the one he gets when he makes a mistake, when he inadvertently does something to upset someone he cares about, when he doesn’t know how to make up for it.

“I--” he tries, but he can’t decipher anything from Stiles’ heart or his stupid, blank expression and all he can smell is the arousal from earlier, lulling him into complacency and choking him at the same time.

And it’s stupid of him to get so worked up over one little thing, he knows it is, but they've been going so well, too well, and whatever, he has fights with Stiles. They still bicker, constantly. But that’s willful, conscientious. Derek knows what he’s getting into, and so does Stiles. It’s something like this, some inadequacy on Derek’s part that sneaks up on them that makes his stomach flop and throat go tight because he can’t even get condoms right, he can’t do anything right, and for some reason this is so much worse than Stiles yelling at him for taking a bullet meant for someone else. It’s harrowing, it’s  _terrifying_ , because it means that one day, Stiles might leave, and Derek won’t be able to do a thing to stop it.

(It’s a testament to his irrepressible need for Stiles that what’s left of his boner doesn’t droop completely at the thought. Stiles, who isn’t even trying to be seductive; he’s just standing there, butt naked and awkwardly leaning, yet Derek still wants to rub off on him like a horny fifteen-year-old.)

But he can’t apologize. He already knows he fucked up; the idea of vocalizing it, opening himself for Stiles to potentially rip into him makes his stomach knot up with anxiety. Besides, if Stiles is mad, it’s justified. No apology will change that. So instead he says, “You can have the shower first.”

At least, he tries to.

Stiles jumps into a flurry of motion, his rather commendable--not to mention rare--composure vanishing. “Shower?!” he says, throwing his hands up to block Derek from leaving the bathroom. “But we haven’t even gotten that nasty yet! No way. No showers until at least one of us is covered in jizz-- new house rule.”

Derek isn’t sure he understands, but he already feels the beginnings of relief. When Stiles is genuinely mad at him, he always starts out with the silent treatment-- until the dam inevitably breaks and he lashes out in a string of obscenities, railing at him until his fury runs its course. And, well. This certainly isn’t the silent treatment.

It bolsters his confidence enough for him to tease. “Can you make house rules if this isn’t your house?”

Stiles splutters, his cheeks flushing and splotchy with red. “Yes. Yes, I can.”

“Your name isn’t on the lease,” he points out, careful to hold his smile back.

“The lease? Screw the lease. Maybe the next time you wake up my name will be  _tattooed on your ass_.”

“Whatever you say, Stiles,” Derek agrees loftily. He ducks under his outstretched arm, leaning in close before he walks away into the bedroom, his lips barely grazing Stiles’ ear. “You’re the alpha.”

Behind him, Stiles makes a choking noise, and Derek hears a sharp clattering that lets him know his boyfriend just knocked their toothbrushes and the soap dish to the floor.

Clearly he doesn’t even take the time to pick any of it up either, because long, skinny fingers make a valiant attempt to wrap around the whole of his bicep and spin him around, their matching set digging into his hair to yank him in.

“You’re-- such-- an-- asshole,” Stiles huffs, punctuating each word with a fierce kiss that leaves indents from his teeth on Derek’s bottom lip. Eventually, though, he’s forced to slow down, because Derek can’t keep his mouth from curling into a smile.

Stiles notices, suitably chagrined, after about the third time his lips hit teeth. Pulling back, he smoothes a hand down Derek’s chest, along the dip of his hips, to run a teasing stroke along his half-hard cock. “Are you gonna stop looking at me like a goober long enough to fuck me or what?”

That certainly shocks the smile off of Derek’s face, even as his dick chubs up. Conditioned response, really, but-- “Fuck you? Stiles, did you miss the part where I said we had no condoms?”

“No, I definitely did not. But you don’t need condoms to have sex. Just lube. Well, lube and consent. And wow! Look at that!” Stiles nips playfully at the corner of his jaw. “We have plenty of both.”

“Yes, but--” he breaks off to glare down at where Stiles’ palm has kept a leisurely pace, his grip tight enough to be distracting but loose enough that Derek wants more. It’s irritating. They’re trying to have a discussion, damn it. “Would you stop that?!” he snaps, trying to shift his hips out of reach. In practice it comes out more like he’s trying to hitch his hips closer, harder.

Stiles smirks, keeping it up for another two strokes before obliging with the drop of his hand; it feels like Derek’s stomach drops with it. “Something wrong,  _babe_?”

Maybe it’s the way Stiles says it, or the smug look on his face, or maybe Derek is too sensitive still, but he suddenly feels embarrassed, guilty,  _mocked_. He jerks away, putting a solid foot of distance between them. “I know that it’s my fault we don’t have any condoms, but you don’t have to compensate.” He tries not to sound as bitter as he wants, but judging by Stiles’ surprise, he’s not quite successful. 

“Compen-- what?  _Your_  fault?”

“Christ. I should’ve known you would rub it in my face.”

“I’m not rubbing anything in your face! I’m trying to get you to rub stuff in  _my_  face! And other parts of my anatomy. Like-- seriously, what the  _shit_ , Derek?!” 

“Don’t,” Derek says, livid with frustration, all but snarling as he jabs a finger at Stiles. “You can’t say things like that. You don’t have to. You don’t have to always come up with a stupid fucking solution to magically make it better when I fuck up!”

The tense silence between them rings like the echoes of a thunder crash.

As Stiles stares at him, mouth gaping, eyes doe-wide and sad, he adds quietly, “I make mistakes. I’m sorry. But I need you not to pretend like you can fix them. And not at your own expense.”

They're both still; Derek can’t even bring himself to look at Stiles anymore. Not until Stiles clears his throat, and Derek can feel the heat of his body as he steps closer, pressing up against him. “Okay. So.” Stiles cups Derek’s cheek, tilting his head closer so they can make eye contact. Stiles’ own eyes are crinkled ruefully at the corners, and his heart beats rabbit-fast. “We should probably clear this up, because. The condoms, uh. They weren’t your fault.”

Immediately Derek opens his mouth to object, rigid and ready to storm off, but Stiles yelps. “No! Wait, hear me out, alright?”

And because this stupid boy means the world to him, he waits-- though he’s careful to offer nothing but a stern expression and an impatient flick of his eyebrows.

“The condoms weren’t your fault because they were, uh. Mine.”

Derek blinks. “What? No. I was the one who bought them.”

“Yeah!” Stiles agrees. “And I was the one who, um. Cut holes into all of them.”

“--What?”

Stiles laughs nervously. “Yeah. So. Definitely not your fault. Unless you consider yourself guilty-adjacent, since I only did it because you’re the sexiest thing on two--and occasionally four--legs that I’ve ever seen.”

“ _What_.”

“Yes?”

For all Stiles feigns his ease, Derek can smell his dread like a miasma. And a fresh whiff of his lingering arousal, because Stiles and his libido are apparently inexhaustible.

“Let me get this straight: you cut holes into our condoms because you want me to fuck you, despite the fact that we would need those condoms for any actual fucking to happen?”

“Well, uh. That’s the thing. We don’t? Need the condoms. That’s like, what I’m getting at.”

“You… what?”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles says encouragingly, seeing as Derek's finally caught on.

And Derek, well. Derek hates how patronizing he sounds, but it has to be said, for Stiles’ sake. For all Stiles gives him shit for constantly rushing into things without properly considering the consequences, Stiles can be just as guilty. “Do you realize how unsafe that is? The potential ramifications?”

Stiles moans. “Oh yeah, baby, I do. Was that your word of the day? 'Ramifications'? That was so hot. Say another. Say, ‘onomatopoeia'. Or, oh god, 'antidisestablishmentarianism.'” 

“Stiles! Be serious.”

“I am being serious. You’re the one who’s not listening when I’m telling you that I want to ride you and get your jizz all up in my asshole.”

Derek glares.

“What!” Stiles complains, even though he knows exactly what.

“If you’re not going to be mature about this, then maybe we should call it a night.”

“When am I ever mature,” whines Stiles, and it’s so pathetic--and true--that Derek almost caves. Almost.

“I’m not kidding,” Derek says. “There are a lot of potential consequences that come with unprotected sex. Not to mention you don’t have my test results, and I don’t have yours.”

“Don’t even come at me with that test result BS. Eighty percent of our social circle is werewolves. I know you can’t carry.”

Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles interrupts, plopping down on the edge of the bed with a pointed thud. “ _And_  we both know that you’re the only one I’ve ever gotten even a little down and dirty with, so it’s not like I’m running any ridiculous risks. But if you want proof for your own peace of control-freaky mind, I got myself tested last week. The papers are in my bag in the kitchen if you want them.”

“Last  _week_?” 

“Yeah, duh. Like... c’mon, jeez. I thought you were more observant than that. I’ve been wanting to do this since I was like, fifteen. And the urge increased like, exponentially, once I met you. Get with the times, ya old geezer.”

“Huh.” It’s a statement and a question, but Derek has no idea how to reply to any of that. His dick, however, is taking an interest again, because fucking Stiles raw, with nothing in between them--

Yeah, that’s something he’s fantasized about. It appeals to him on a very primal level. But still--

“Fortune favors the bold, Derek,” Stiles tries.

“The bold has never had to clean come out of his own ass before.”

Stiles waggles his eyebrows. “Hey, I’ll have help, right?” But his train of thought visibly stutters, mouth going slack. Then his eyes brighten, keen with interest. “Wait. Have  _you_  had to clean come out of your own ass before?”

Derek grins slow and smug, the way that Scott always says makes him look like a know-it-all douchebag, and that Stiles has begrudgingly admitted to finding "sexier than the entirety of the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show." He forgoes answering, stepping forward with slow, strategic kisses along the curve of Stiles’ neck. He also angles his head for just the right amount of beard burn to make Stiles moan, and his voice cracks half-way through.

“Derek Hale, you are an enigma--” he squawks, his hands shaking as they slip over Derek's shoulders, grappling for a solid grip. Derek decides to help him, hauling a thick arm around his waist and twisting them so he's on the edge of the bed, and Stiles is seated across his lap.

Both of them could probably be content to make out for the rest of the night, naked and cozy together amidst the blankets and pillows, but Derek feels pressed to ask. After all, Stiles had gone through considerable trouble and a $27.99 box of condoms to get them to this point. And Stiles  _is_  always nagging him about being more courteous.

“Do you really want to do this,” he eventually murmurs, forcing Stiles to pay attention with a quick nip to his ear. “You know that--”

“I know that I’m clean," Stiles rushes out, like it's been rehearsed, "and that it’s messy, and that there are risks. But your freaky werewolf sperm can’t preggo my eggo because I don’t have any eggos to preggo, and you’re also not gonna make me sick because, again, shall I reiterate, freaky werewolf sperm.”

Derek stills.

“What?!” Stiles demands, tugging on a clump of Derek’s hair. “You really thought I wasn’t gonna google the shit out of it? You only get one ass, and contrary to what you might think, I'm pretty dedicated to taking care of mine.”

At Derek’s silence, he says, “Not even WebMD could scare me out of this. I know what I’m asking for. I want it.”

His voice lowers. “Please, I want you in me, Derek. I want to feel it, feel you. Want you to fill me up so full that it leaks down my thighs and you have to fill me up again, and again and again--”

“Stiles,” Derek starts, and to Stiles it must sound quelling, like it’s the beginning of the end, because he doesn’t let him finish.

“I’ll beg for this, I will, I-- _God_ , like--” Stiles cuts himself off, teeth worrying his lip as if having to ask for this brings him physical pain. He clambers off his lap to pace back and forth in front of him, desperation making him anxious, making him have to move. “I want to feel you, in every way, I need you so much that it--  _shit_ , it’s driving me insane! I love you,” he says breathlessly, searing Derek with the heat, the utter devotion as he turns to him with his honey-dark eyes. “I think about it in class, at work, in the car, I’ve jacked myself off in my fucking car, Derek, because I think about you and I want you. I want to belong to you in any way either of us can think of. You and I, we-- we don’t need stars or fireworks or ridiculous musical numbers like those lame-ass movies you love. I just need you, and to know you need me the same way. Like, I know you do, I know, and I feel it when we’re together, but fuck, at night when I’m not here, when I’m not with you I feel so fucking  _empty_  just thinking about it, just imagining, you have no idea how much I’m fucking  _gagging_  for it, for anything you’re willing to give me, like--”

The sudden sting of salt in the air startles Derek’s eyes wide. Watching Stiles as he’s overcome, eyes welling with unshed emotion, even as he presses his forearm over his face in a weak attempt to hide it. Derek can’t keep his distance, for all Stiles is frantic-- wild, but trapped. Agitated. He thinks he might be intimate with the feeling, the war of flesh and fur clashing with claws and teeth under his skin, in the tips of his fingers when the moon calls… when Stiles calls. But Derek has learned how to calm it within, to meld together what he needs and wants and knows into an imperfect harmony, something calm and brutal and, perhaps, beautiful. He wishes he could do the same for Stiles.

He pulls Stiles into him with ease and Derek aches at how easily he crumples, falling into the familiar comfort of Derek’s chest.

“I don’t-- it’s not that I want to pressure you, if it’s something you don’t like, that you aren’t into. If you-- if you don’t want me, _us_ , like that. If it’s not something you’re comfortable with. But if you’re saying no for my sake, please--”

“Not  _want_  you,” Derek repeats darkly. “Stiles, you’re-- you’re a part of me.” He cradles Stiles’ hand with one of his own, shifting it from where it’d been leaving five white crescent indents on his chest to hold it flat across the lay of his heart. It would be terrifying to reveal himself like this if Stiles hadn’t already given him so much, if he didn’t give him more than he could ever hope for with each day; it would be terrifying if he didn’t trust this boy, this man, with all he has.

“Everything I do, you’re with me.” He presses down harder, needing for Stiles to feel its rhythm, feel how every beat carries with it the gentle sigh of his name; needing Stiles to know that if he wanted, he could dig into Derek’s chest and steal his heart for a trophy, and Derek would let him. “How could I not want you?”

“But Derek,” Stiles breathes, and it’s still shaky.

“Anything,” Derek gasps. “I’d give you anything, I  _will_  give you anything. Everything.”

“Do you want it? I only want it if you do. You come first, you always come first, you have to know that.”

Derek smiles, pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles. “And you ought to know that you come first for me. So it’s a good thing, then, that I want you any way I can have you. But you call the shots.” Before Stiles can protest, he adds, “I’ll let you know if something doesn’t work for me.”

“Swear?” Stiles asks, soft like he seldom is, nosing sweetly at Derek’s cheek, crossing it with a flurry of butterfly kisses.

“Swear,” he says, dipping down to capture Stiles’ mouth.

When they break for a breath, Stiles whispers between them, “Don’t wanna be able to wash you away. Want everyone to know you’re mine, I’m yours, want them to fucking  _smell_  how desperate we are for each other.”

The words hang heavily between them, as if, could they be strung from a tree, they would drag its branches all the way down to the dirt. Derek meets him, stare for stare, inhale for exhale. It doesn't bother him, he decides. He can be the simple earth to Stiles' open sky. Stiles has already been the roots keeping him steady, anchoring him in place. There doesn't have to be any one star between them-- the night is full of them, after all.

Something wells up in him, a Stygian rumbling; and maybe his control slips, because one moment he’s looking at Stiles with all the love any one man can feel, and the next he’s on top of him, grinding him into the sheets with languid, possessive rolls of his hips. Stiles gasps beneath him, throwing one leg around his hip to drag him closer. His dick is flushed hard and his chest is already slick with sweat as he rubs up into Derek’s thigh, tandem with every brush of friction Derek gets from the curve of his hip.

It strikes Derek that he wants this to be perfect, this complete surrendering of themselves to one another. They can fuck like rabbits some other night. Now, he needs to take his time.

With that in mind, he slows his pace. Stiles objects with a sharp whine, contrary as ever as he speeds up his own measure to counter Derek. Derek smiles, darting a quick peck on the exertion-pink of Stiles’ cheek; but he palms the jagged edge of Stiles’ hip bone, sweeping across the skin to cup a handful of his ass, forcibly curbing the frantic stutter of his hips.

It’s easy to ignore the disgruntled huffs in favor of the startled yelp Stiles makes when Derek focuses his attention on the firm weight in his hand and  _squeezes_.

“If you’re gonna tease, at least get the lube first, Jesus,” Stiles says. “Gimme a little bit of hope.”

“I’ll give you more than that,” Derek says, and laughs when Stiles groans, his hips jerking.

“I don’t know why I get off on your lame attempts at innuendo, but fuck me sideways, I do.”

“I’ll try to spare you the worst of them,” Derek reassures, pausing their movement to snag the bottle of lube from where they’d left it earlier, on the bedside table.

As Derek palms the lube, warms it between his fingers, Stiles shifts restlessly beneath him. To make up for the wait, he leans forward and leaves a kiss on each of his ribs, then over his heart. It’s easy, then, to graze his stubble against Stiles’ chest, to tease his teeth along puffy nipples. It’s easier to slide a finger inside him, the catch of his rim only a token resistance.

“So pretty," he praises, shallowly sinking his finger in at a relentless rhythm. “You’re always so good for me, taking me so well.”

When the compliments register--a beat late, because he’s too focused on Derek’s touch--Stiles practically glows. He shoves back against Derek’s hand, eager for more, eager to please.

“Can you tell me what you want, baby?” Derek asks, forgoing the quick finger-fucks for something deeper, harder. Letting Stiles adjust. His other hand reaches, giving Stiles a slick grip to rut his cock into. “How am I doing? You like it like this?”

Stiles’ mouth hangs open, chin tipped back and eyes closed. In the low light it glistens, mind so focused on his cock that he forgets to lick at his lips, forgets to force it shut. Sightlessly he searches for Derek’s shoulder and he latches onto it with lazy purpose, sloppy with his slick, open mouth against his skin, too far gone--just from Derek’s  _hands_ \--for something as structured as kisses.

“Good. So good. And you  _taste_  so good,” he breathes wetly, dragging his nose along Derek’s jaw. “Wanna taste, want you all over my face next time. Cover me up, get me filthy.”

Derek pictures a wide-eyed Stiles, gasping in ecstasy through speckles of come in his eyelashes, Derek’s spunk still dripping over his lips and chin as Derek pulls him to completion.

“Next time,” Derek says.

Stiles reaches behind, his wrist bumping against Derek's, and lets out a long, low moan as he circles his rim with his index. Derek can feel where his weight shifts on his thigh, sweat slicking the rhythm of Stiles’ wrist as it chafes against Derek’s.

“More,” he insists, and Derek swallows, a wave of want heating his face, his whole body. But there’s something else.

“Show me,” he says. “Show me what you do when you think about this. When all you want is for me to wreck you, filling you up and getting you wet.”

Whatever Stiles tries to reply with gets caught midway in his throat as he scrambles to flip over, his fists spasming in the sheets as he gets on his hands and knees. It’s both sweet and shameless, the way he presents himself so beautifully; his ass perky and pale, begging for Derek to mark it up, his back arched so tight Derek wants to take oil to his lats and dig in, massaging them for hours, until Stiles comes just from his touch.

There’s a slippery sound as Stiles all but drenches his fingers, slopping a copious amount of lube between his cheeks, over his hole. He’d done enough teasing already that he digs right in, plunging one finger in to the second knuckle and sobbing because it’s still not enough.

A second finger quickly joins, and Derek braces an encouraging hand around Stiles’ left thigh, soothing him as he rocks back onto his own fingers.

“Talk to me--” Stiles breathes in, hard. “Derek, tell me  _you_  think of this. Tell me, talk to me, wanna hear your voice, need your voice,” he pleads, and Derek can hear him sniff. "Please. Please please please."

“Of course I think of this, baby. How could I not, when you're always so sweet. So ready.”

Stiles keens. Derek knows better than to think it's just because he found a better angle.

His voice goes low, smooth. Unruffled, audibly, even as his grip on Stiles' thigh tightens. “I think about your ass, even when I shouldn’t. I’ll think about getting my mouth on you, eating your hole until it’s soft and raw, until your ass is a rubbed red mess from my jaw. You smell so good, so right, you always do. But there… it’s deeper. Intoxicating. I could eat you out for hours and still need more.

“Maybe I can fill you up, then lick you clean. Suck my spunk right out from where I put it, then fill you up again so you don't forget.”

“Oh god, oh  _fuck_ \--  _yes_ , yes, all aboard, full steam ahead, let’s definitely do that,” Stiles scrambles, the distinct tang of precome hitting the air, soaking their sheets.

“First things first,” Derek laughs, tugging gently at where Stiles’ finger-fucking has stuttered, gifting his wrist with a light kiss before guiding it back into place on the bed.

Stiles groans, rocking backward. “Good idea.”

Once Derek shifts more fully into place, he stops, poised with his cock just barely slipping over the tight skin of Stiles’ hole, rubbing barely-there touches between his ass cheeks that make Stiles  _shudder_. “Are you ready for this?”

“Jesus fuck, yes, how many times do you want me to fucking say ye-- _ah_ \--” Derek surges into him hard, his cock dipping in with ease, and Stiles shuts up in favor of unintelligible gasping. 

And Derek gets it, he does, because it’s pure willpower that keeps him from falling into Stiles and just  _rutting_ \-- taking everything he can from the hot slide of their bodies.

But he’s determined, still, to keep it slow. He forces his eyes closed to concentrate on what he’s doing, rather than the tempting play of Stiles’ back as he arches and nags for more. One of his hands finds the small of Stiles’ back, using it for leverage to give a calculated snap of his hips, driving Stiles into the bed with the strength of it. 

Stiles shouts, but there’s more than a little bit of a laugh in it too. “Yeah babe, give it to me,” he jokes between great gulps of air.

Derek smacks his ass, perfunctory but flirtatious, before ruthlessly pulling out. “Keep that up and I’ll stop,” he says, and plunges right back in.

“ _No_ ,” objects Stiles, as if he can’t imagine anything worse. For what it’s worth, Derek can’t either.

Unfortunately there are limits to even Derek’s stamina, though he drags it out as long as he can. But with Stiles writhing under him, so desperate for anything he can get, it’s not long before he’s all but humping into Stiles, barely separating as they thrust together in a deep, slow grind.

Dropping a graceless kiss on Stiles’ shoulder, Derek braces his weight so he can reach around them and get a hand on his cock. Stiles slaps him away. “No, no, no,” he cries. “Wanna come just from your cock, with your come all over me, in me.”

The image alone is enough to have him spiraling over the edge. Combined with the wet heat around his cock, Derek _chokes_ , his hips faltering; can’t help but spill into Stiles.

Come wells up in Stiles’ hole, already starting to seep out around his dick, so he pulls out. Stiles wails at the loss, but Derek is fast to plug him up with three fingers, his other hand holding his yet dribbling cock, dripping the rest of his come across Stiles’ back and legs.

The first hot splash on his ass has Stiles panting as he follows, his own cock splattering a creamy mess onto the sheets.

It’s then that Stiles stops holding up his own weight, and he’s content to fall into his own pool of come, his body still twitching with searing aftershocks.

Derek collapses next to him, purposely letting his arm fall hard into Stiles’ stomach.

“Oof, watch it, jerk,” he complains, even as he scooches into Derek, curling himself into his side, head pillowed on the bend of Derek’s bicep and shoulder. The sweat and come between them hasn’t even dried when Stiles says happily into Derek’s skin where his mouth is pressed, “We are so doing that again.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, dropping a quick kiss to the fluffy top of Stiles’ mussed head, which is pretty much all of him he can see from this vantage point.

It’s quiet and content between them. Derek likes it; he thinks they both do. But--

“Wait,” Derek says, covertly sweeping his thumb through some of the still-wet come splashed along Stiles’ hip. Stiles twists his neck to look Derek in the face and Derek tells him seriously, “You’ve got something on your face.”

“Huh?” Stiles replies, still a little come-dumb. A bleary hand pats along his own cheek, finding nothing. “No I don--”

Derek brushes his thumb against the tip of Stiles’ nose, smearing the come there.

“Hey!” Stiles protests indignantly, going cross-eyed as he tries to look at it. Derek grins.

Once Stiles stops trying to see his nose and notices, he levels him a hard look before shrugging and curling up against Derek’s chest again. “Joke’s on you, asshole,” murmurs Stiles, rubbing his face into Derek’s chest hair, “because I like it.”

Stiles cackles as Derek freezes, only stopping when Derek flips them over and steals his laughter with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://www.softlycanthropy.tumblr.com)


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